


And All That Jazz

by LackingBinary



Series: Love in the First Degree [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blowjobs, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism, if youre looking for plot you wont find it here, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackingBinary/pseuds/LackingBinary
Summary: Jazz keeps showing up in Prowl's office. As it turns out, the mech has ulterior motives. Prowl finds he doesn’t mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Brought you you by the soundtrack of Chicago. And, in particular, the song And all that Jazz.  
> Which, actually, has nothing to do with this fic except that it inspired me to write this.
> 
> exams are this week so i wrote this rather than working on any of the Actual fics i have planned

Prowl had an unusually large desk. It was something he’d never really paid much mind to, in truth. He was not, however, oblivious to the calculating looks that Jazz gave the piece of furniture every time he happened to be in Prowl’s office. It was a little confusing, all things considered, but it certainly wasn’t the most confusing thing about Jazz. 

Lately, the mech been turning up in his office with such regularity that Prowl could’ve sworn Jazz was fabricating excuses to see him. Given Jazz’s profession, however, Prowl never managed to catch him in a lie. 

At this particular moment, Jazz was sprawled across from Prowl with a languor that suggested he was paying little attention to the matter at hand. Prowl knew better; the SpecOps mech had turned indifference into something approaching an art. Mechs, Jazz had once explained in a rare display of transparency, were more likely to let down their guard if they thought he wasn’t paying attention. 

Knowing that didn’t make Jazz’s display any less grating, though. Prowl leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the desk in a staccato rhythm. Jazz flinched almost imperceptibly, the noise evidently aggravating his modified audials. Prowl shot him a pointed look, and Jazz straightened with an audible ex-vent. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to have some sense of propriety, you know.” 

“Oh, I know. I’ve explained myself before, bossmech. Have you forgotten so soon? You must be losing your edge.”

Prowl narrowed his optics. Jazz met his glare with a saccharine smile, spreading his hands in a show of innocence. “Hey, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Let’s get on with the business at hand, shall we?” Prowl said, settling back in his chair. 

“Let’s,” Jazz said agreeably. 

The “business”, Prowl was forced to admit, was an almost unbearably dull affair. There were stacks of reports to go over, plans to formulate, but very little had changed since the last time he had dealt with it. Decepticons were still raiding human outposts in their quest for energon, and Autobot forces were still spread far too thin. And no feasible plans could be formulated, since their Prime was still inexplicably dedicated to preserving every human life they came across, even at the expense of victory. 

The strangest part about the whole situation, though, was that Jazz had no real reason to be there. As a high-ranking officer, he had access to all the same reports that Prowl had, and he also had a duty to review them. Yet he was certainly under no obligation to review them _with_ Prowl. 

It couldn’t be something as simple as Jazz wanting to see Prowl, could it? There were less tedious circumstances that could be arranged, surely. It was true that Prowl seldom allowed himself to be pried from his work, but he might be willing to acquiesce if someone gave him a good enough reason. Probably. His work really was very important. 

In any case, it was almost laughable to suggest that Jazz would go out of his way to see Prowl, a mech whose friends called him cold-sparked and calculating, and whose enemies fitted him with epithets that didn’t bear thinking about. _Jazz_ , who was universally well-liked and who must be constantly inundated with requests for companionship. 

He had learned early on that directly asking Jazz for answers yielded poor results. More often than not, he’d just smile enigmatically and change the subject. Frankly, it was infuriating. There were too many variables, and Prowl’s processor struggled to fit the pieces together into a comprehensible puzzle. 

So they met perhaps once a week to go over the current state of affairs. This week, as with every week before, things were looking grim. They were not, however, looking any more dismal than usual, a fact which Jazz pointed out with his usual optimism. Prowl barely restrained himself from rolling his optics. 

“We can’t afford to get accustomed to this. The ‘bots will grow complacent, and they’ll forget how urgent things really are.”

Jazz held up a placating hand. “I know, I know. But constant stress ain’t gonna help ‘em either. What good will frying their processors do, when their worry can’t accomplish anything?” 

Prowl had to concede that the mech had a point. He ex-vented loudly, rubbing at his faceplate. “You’re right, of course. After all, you certainly know the crew better than I do. They rather dislike me, I’m afraid.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Jazz said, inclining his helm. “They don’t hate you, it’s just that they haven’t really had the chance to get to know you. Ya gotta admit, keeping yourself holed up in here hasn’t done anything for your reputation.”

Prowl shrugged. “I’ve heard the things they say about me, Jazz. I hold a position of authority, and I enforce rules that most mechs would prefer remain unenforced. I’ve accepted the disdain that comes with the role.” It was hardly even a lie. He _had_ accepted it. Mostly. Friendship was not a necessary part of his job. 

Jazz’s frown said that he wasn’t buying Prowl’s story. “My job comes with quite a bit of authority as well, you know. And the crew likes me well enough. It’s all in how you present yourself.” 

Prowl threw his hands up, rapidly growing tired of the topic. “Perhaps I’m just a fundamentally unlikable person, then! At any rate, my _popularity_ has no bearing on my ability to do my work.” 

“I haven’t found much to complain about. Are ya callin’ me a poor judge of character?” Jazz said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips as he leaned towards Prowl. His tone was light, comfortable. It was not a tone that most mechs tended to adopt around Prowl. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, feeling his own face slide into a small smile. He found himself leaning towards Jazz again, as though caught in the other mech’s gravity. 

“The reports,” Jazz said after a moment. 

“Right, yes.” Prowl cycled his vocalizer, turning back to the stack of datapads arranged on the desk. They seemed even less appealing than when the two mechs had begun to look over them. Prowl picked up the top pad, skimming through it unenthusiastically. 

“Hound reports that the Decepticons are growing bolder in their attacks, striking closer and closer to our base of operations. He’s also seen the Seeker Trine about more than usual; he thinks that they’re searching for something. As for Shockwave, our scouts indicate that--” 

Prowl broke off, looking up to pin Jazz with a glare. “Why do you keep _doing_ that?”

“Doing what?” Jazz said, the picture of innocence. 

“Looking at my desk like that.”

“Prowler, I’m sure I ain’t got a clue what you’re on about.”

“You do, and moreover you’re doing it on purpose, because you don’t do anything without at least four different motives.” It was a trait that Prowl admired, actually, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Jazz that. The mech probably knew anyway; information was his specialty.

“I suppose,” Jazz hedged, “that I might have some ideas.”

“Ideas. About my desk.”

Jazz hummed in assent, reaching out and snagging a datapad from the stack. Prowl knew affected nonchalance when he saw it, and this was the most blatant display he’d ever witnessed. Despite himself, he felt a jolt of excitement at the possibility of uncovering another of Jazz’s missing pieces. 

“Whatever it is,” Prowl mused, “you’ve been thinking about it since the first time you saw my office.” 

“Mighta been,” Jazz said, not looking up from the pad he was holding. 

“Must be something important,” Prowl said. “I’m sure there’s a rule about withholding important information from a superior officer.” There were several, in fact, and Prowl could recite all of them. He felt, however, that Jazz’s “ideas” probably had little to do with their respective professions. 

“‘Superior?’ Last I checked, we were on equal footing.” Jazz finally set the pad aside, his stern tone offset by the smile quirking his lips. 

“Mm, no. Nominally, at least, I outrank you. What you do, after all, hardly fits into the chain of command.” 

And then Jazz was up, he was moving with a fluidity that belied his bulky frame, and the next thing Prowl knew Jazz was whispering into his audial. 

“Well then, maybe I should pay my proper respects, _sir_ ,” Jazz said, an exploratory finger sliding along the edge of Prowl’s doorwing. 

This was it, the moment they’d been dancing around for weeks. Prowl felt like he was falling, but when he mustered the energy to speak his voice was steady. “It seems you’re trying to distract me from my question.”

“Me? Never,” Jazz said, but his other hand had joined the first in its efforts to map Prowl’s doorwings. Prowl bit back a groan, his wings quivering slightly at the attentions. 

“Are you going to answer me, then?” 

“If you insist,” Jazz purred. He pulled his hands from Prowl’s plating, and Prowl stifled an undignified whine. It might’ve been countless years since someone had touched him with any suggestion of intimacy, but that didn't mean he had to act like a newspark. 

Jazz leaned back against the desk, giving its surface an affectionate pat. “Well, as I'm sure you've noticed, Prime saw fit to outfit your office with an unusually large desk.”

“It’s rather cumbersome at times, yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“We- _ell_ ,” Jazz drawled, “I’ve been thinking that it's the perfect size to suck a spike under.”

Prowl’s spark stuttered in its casing. Jazz was still looking at him, the glint in his visor leaving no doubt about whose spike he meant to suck. 

Jazz’s hands were on him again, dextrous fingers working into the seams between his armor. “You're the most tightly-wound mech I’ve seen in _ages_. Bet we could do somethin’ about that.”

Prowl was rapidly losing any control he might have had over the situation. Jazz was pulling at the delicate cabling of his joints, sending shivers through his frame. Prowl’s hands clenched against the metal of his desk, pressing faint dents into the surface. 

“This is a public office, Jazz,” he said through gritted dentae, “someone could walk in.”

“Someone could,” Jazz agreed. “There ain’t nothing stopping anybody from walkin’ right in here and seein’ you, and you’d have to act like there wasn’t anything going on.”

The smile on the other mech’s face was shamelessly predatory, and Prowl felt a flash of heat shoot up his spinal strut. The dents in his desk were becoming rapidly more pronounced. Primus, the idea of Jazz sucking him off under his own desk shouldn’t be so incredibly arousing, nor should the threat of discovery. But all the logical reasons why this was a bad idea were being rapidly eclipsed by the growing heat of his frame. 

“So, what do you say bossmech? Do you trust me?” Jazz’s hands were little more than a suggestion of pressure against Prowl’s plating, skimming along the heated surface teasingly. And Prowl found that he did trust Jazz, despite the urging of his best instincts, which warned him that Jazz was not someone to be trifled with. 

“Yes,” Prowl whispered, feeling like the ground had been pulled out from under him, “I do.” 

In one fluid motion, Jazz slid to the knees. He slotted himself under the desk, proving himself right: the space was large enough to fit his frame comfortably. 

There was a gentle tap against his ankle, and Prowl spread his thighs obligingly. A moment later, a gust of warm air ghosted across his modesty panels as Jazz positioned himself between Prowl’s legs. 

“You doin’ alright, Prowler?” Jazz asked, pillowing his head on Prowl’s thigh. His fingers slipped over Prowl’s pelvic array, dipping into the seams. 

Prowl’s ventilations stuttered, his cooling fans spinning into motion. “As long as you’re sure you want to do this,” he murmured, a hand slipping down to rest against the curve of Jazz’s cheek. 

“D’you take me for a mech who does things he ain’t sure of?” 

Prowl might have answered, perhaps made some sharp-tongued remark about how wit wasn’t a substitute for a straight answer. But suddenly Jazz was lowering his helm, his glossa flicking out to lick a hot stripe along Prowl’s panels, and any words he might have said caught in his intake. 

Prowl’s hands clenched tight around Jazz’s helm, his hips bucking up sharply against the other mech’s mouth. Jazz chuckled, the sound sending shivery curls of tension through Prowl’s frame. 

“You gonna give me something to work with here?” Jazz rumbled, tapping a finger against Prowl’s modesty panels.

The panels snapped open with embarrassing speed, Prowl’s pressurizing spike jutting out to press against Jazz’s waiting lips. Jazz ran his glossa along the underside before wrapping his mouth around the spike, suffusing it in a wet heat. 

Prowl’s ex-vents came in short bursts. Small, desperate noises pushed their way from his vocalizer. One of Jazz’s hands came up to pin his hips, leaving his pleasure entirely at the other mech’s mercy. 

Luckily, Jazz didn’t seem to be in the mood to tease. His mouth continued to move around Prowl’s spike, his free hand coming up to rub firmly against Prowl’s anterior node. 

Prowl’s vocalizer clicked uselessly, spitting harsh static that he hoped sounded like encouragement. 

Naturally, that was when the door slid open. 

Prowl sat up sharply, feeling Jazz’s helm collide with the bottom of his desk. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly overshadowed by his fear of discovery. 

The intruder turned out to be Optimus Prime, of all mechs. Fortunately, he had been examining a datapad when he entered and had only now turned his gaze to the office’s other inhabitant. Prowl shifted slightly, hoping his faceplates weren’t terribly flushed. The movement slid some of his spike from Jazz’s mouth, the friction causing his vents to catch. This meeting was going to be a perilous exercise in self control, even if Jazz didn’t do anything incriminating. Which, given his track record, Prowl wasn’t at all hopeful of. 

“Prowl,” Prime rumbled, “I trust I’m not interrupting anything? I’d hoped to discuss strategy.”

“Of course. I’ve no other pressing obligations at the moment.”

Prowl could’ve sworn he heard faint laughter from beneath the desk, but he firmly hoped that he was imagining it. Or, at least, that Prime couldn’t hear it. 

The smart thing to do at this point would’ve been to push Jazz off of him and close his panels. But if he’d been entirely in possession of his mental faculties, he never would’ve entered into this charade in the first place. 

So, instead, he canted his hips and slowly pressed his spike back into Jazz’s intake. Surprise radiated from Jazz’s usually-obscured EM field, followed by a warm wash of lust. 

Prime frowned, concern creasing his brow. “Are you sure you’re well? You seem rather… strained.” 

That time, he definitely heard a quiet laugh, or perhaps felt the vibration of it. Prowl forced a more neutral expression onto his face, lightly kicking Jazz’s back with one of his pedes in admonishment. “I’m fine, I assure you. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Prime gave him a calculating look, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he turned his attention to the datapad he held. He began to detail some minutiae of recent Decepticon tactics, but Prowl found himself hard-pressed to concentrate because Jazz had apparently deemed it safe to start moving again

Jazz leaned forward, taking the entirety of Prowl’s spike into his mouth. Prowl’s optics shot wide, and he barely managed to contain a moan. Jazz’s hand, which had stilled when Prime walked in, began to move again, tracing feather-light around the lips of Prowl’s valve.

Prowl was beginning to think it’d be a miracle if he made it through this with his reputation intact. 

And Prime was-- Prime was looking at him, and what had he been saying? He had to ask Prime to repeat what he had said, and Prime was giving him a look of such _concern_ , and Jazz’s fingers were _in_ his valve now, Primus save him; Prowl was going to lose his mind. 

Prowl managed some fabrication about how he was overstressed, probably, and tired, definitely, and would in any case be perfectly fine after a bit of rest, and could they perhaps continue this discussion then? Prime made some suggestion about going to see Ratchet (which the both of them knew Prowl would never do unless bodily dragged to the medibay), and Prowl made some vague noise of affirmation, and Jazz curled his fingers _just so_.

Prowl bit down on his glossa, feeling the sharp tang of spilled energon fill his mouth as heat rushed through his frame. He hoped, desperately, that Prime wouldn’t notice. 

And then finally, blessedly, Prime took his leave. As the door shut behind him, Prowl slumped strutless to the desk, the cooling fans that he’d been forcibly keeping in check ratcheting up to a dull roar. 

Jazz slid his mouth from Prowl’s spike with a wet _pop_ , poking his helm out from under the desk. He was grinning. Somehow, despite his face being covered in Prowl’s fluids, Prowl got the distinct impression that Jazz had gotten the upper hand in this situation. 

“Y’know, I did tell ya someone might come in! Didn’t figure it’d be the big boss, but hey, I think you held up well enough!”

“Don’t you _dare_ stop now.”

“Aw, mech, I ain’t even started yet.” 

Then, in a series of moves so fast that he hardly had time to register them, Prowl found himself pressed against the wall. Jazz’s mouth was on his, and the hand that wasn’t pinning him to the wall was wrapped around his spike. Prowl moaned helplessly into the kiss, his hands coming up to cling desperately to Jazz’s shoulders. Jazz broke away, moving his mouth to nip at Prowl’s intake. 

“The door’s-- _Mm!_ \-- still open, you know,” Prowl mumbled, tilting his helm up to grant Jazz better access. 

“I guess we’ll have to take that chance, won’t we?” Jazz whispered, the hand around Prowl’s spike doing something that made him feel like his internals were melting. Charge crackled beneath his plating and his valve clenched on nothing, frustratingly empty. 

“ _Jazz_ ,” he said, the words almost overwhelmed by buzzing static as he felt his overload building. 

In a fluid motion, Jazz dropped to his knees once more. His hands bracketed Prowl’s hips and before Prowl had a chance to bemoan the loss of contact Jazz’s lips were around his spike, pulling it eagerly into his intake.The sensation was bliss, and with a strangled shout Prowl found himself overloading into Jazz’s mouth.

Jazz’s intake worked as he swallowed, and when he drew back there was no evidence of Prowl’s overload save for a dribble of transfluid that Jazz languidly licked from his chin. 

“Couldn’t have you making a mess of your office,” Jazz said, pulling himself to his feet. 

Prowl didn’t answer, still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure. It was taking all his remaining concentration to keep him from slipping into a strutless heap on the floor. 

And yet Jazz stood before him, one hand on a cocked hip, looking as composed as ever. Come to think of it, Prowl hadn’t even heard the telltale _whirr_ of cooling fans from the other mech. 

“Don’t--you want--” Prowl managed, not quite collected enough to assemble his thoughts into coherent phrases.

Jazz waved a hand dismissively, seeming entirely unbothered. “Maybe next time, yeah? I think that’s enough for today.”

He turned to go, leaving a flustered Prowl with that phrase running through his mind: _next time?_

**Author's Note:**

> as it turns out, i know almost nothing about jazz, prowl, or g1  
> so if something's Rough (tm) that's probably why


End file.
